


acta sanctorum

by Marystormshade



Series: Dragon Age Drabbles [2]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Angst, Dorian can be a sweetie, Drabble, Introspection, M/M, Mini Fic, Minor Injuries, Praise Kink, gratuitous praise, honestly, it's 1 am, me being vague, mild though, so i'm just implementing latin, there's so little info on the tevene language, throw me in the trash where i belong, what do you expect, when he wants to, will be prominent in upcoming works
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-29
Updated: 2014-12-29
Packaged: 2018-03-04 03:50:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 564
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2908310
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Marystormshade/pseuds/Marystormshade
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Trevelyan awakes with a pain in his hand and a helpful bed mate.</p>
<p>alternatively,</p>
<p>Dorian distracts himself (and Trevelyan). </p>
<p>No smut, just cuties being cute.</p>
            </blockquote>





	acta sanctorum

It’s not the first time this has happened.

Dorian has woken to half of the duvet missing as a chill runs up his thighs. Has looked and seen Asher pacing, quietly, on the balcony, his left hand tight against his chest, as though he is cradling a baby bird. And in the same instant he has seen the tightening of Asher’s face as he slams his fist into the stone of Skyhold, and it must help because his bloody knuckles bring a loosening of his lips as he breathes out, leans against the stone a moment before coming back in.

Dorian has always pretended to sleep.

But there is no pretending tonight as a cry ripples through the darkened room. Dorian sits up, his eyes blurring around the edges and sleep still lingering, and looks.

Asher is on his knees, forehead pressed to the mattress as he breathes sharp hisses through his teeth. He is pressing his hand, his mark into the softness beneath him as though, if he pushes hard enough, focuses intently enough, he can make it absorb into the very fabric.

Dorian moves, slowly, as though Asher is a timid beast in a corner, and he an unknown variable. And he sets to work.

Hands at the back of the neck, a gentle weight, nothing more than a pressure, a reassurance, and already Asher is breathing easier. He nuzzles against the cavern between Asher’s shoulder blades, let’s his lips still on the slightly protrusive vertebrae before continuing downward. Dorians fingers follow the descent of his tongue and he allows them to wander of the expanse of muscled back, let’s them travel the breadth of Asher’s chest. One goes to hold the base of his neck, the other grips his hand, the instrument of divinity. The blessing that has caused his love such pain.

“It troubles you still amatus.” It is a statement, one that Dorian does not expect an answer to. Instead he pulls from Asher, urges him to his side, and lays opposite of him. Asher grits his teeth at the movement, his hand still pressing downwards, before relenting.

Asher is silent, opened mouthed and somewhere between awe and shyness, as Dorian brings his left hand to his mouth. And he wants Asher to say something, anything, because Dorian has prepared himself for everything, except absence; except silence.   
  


He begins with the tips of his fingers, presses their hands together, presses himself closer. Kisses each pad of each digit, moves to the webbing between the fingers, a swift lick along the edges, if only to see that spark come to Asher’s eyes.

And the tingle is there. But that’s not surprising, because the tingle is always there; a hum not unlike lyrium as it passes down his throat, an invigorating pull into some abysmal peace. Briefly, Dorian wonders of the pain that his love feels, and stops. Asher would tell him when he needed to.

And for a moment he fears, because this man, this herald, this boy, is a God made real, and he is terrifying in his youthfulness. Dorian has placed himself in the hands of inexperience, and they quake and shiver under his weight.

He breathes hotly against the mark.   
  
“My beautiful boy.”

Asher whimpers and breaks from his hold, tugs him by the hair-

(and damn it it hurts)

-smashes his mouth against Dorians and smiles.

 

**Author's Note:**

> throw me in the trash


End file.
